


They Make a Mean Old-Fashioned Here

by Nenalata



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkward Tension, Awkwardness, Bisexuality, Fluff, M/M, Modern Thedas, Romance, Single Parents, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: Alistair didn't want to hang out with Mr. Evaric Tabris more than work and offspring's playdates dictated. It was because Alistair didn’t want to impose on him. It was because he didn’t want to rehash the same conversation topics. It was because he didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good work relationship.It definitely wasn’t because he’d once seen Mr. Tabris at The Pearl Exotic Dance Club and wasn’t sure if Mr. Tabris had seen him, too.





	1. Acknowledgment

**Author's Note:**

> Gave bleep0bleep on tumblr's sfw fanfic prompt generator a few spins and liked this one the best: 
> 
> Strip Club.  
> Geek/Jock dynamics.  
> Single parents whose children are best friends.
> 
> And now here we are. Two chapters after this! Always love hearing your thoughts.
> 
> http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts if you're interested in trying it out yourself.

The Tabrises lived in a nice neighborhood, a cul-de-sac near the entrance of the suburban cluster of two-stories. The development had a generic and pleasant name, Halla Hollow or Andraste’s Grace or something to that effect; it was the sort of generic pleasantness that Alistair immediately forgot after driving past the sign. But the Tabris house itself was nice, again in that generic suburbia way: two stories like all the others, a deep brown roof, a fenced-in backyard sporting a clubhouse and a porch over which Alistair and Mr. Tabris could sit watching over their spawn and pretend to have a meaningful conversation while Adaia and Kieran had their playdate.

There was no reason why they _couldn’t_ have a meaningful conversation. They were both employed by the same cybersecurity company. They were both divorced from beautiful women who didn’t want much to do with them. They were both the fathers of one-a-piece very bright, very energetic child best friends with the other. But at this point in the playdate schedule, sitting on the porch with setting-a-good-example drinks (a juice box for Mr. Tabris, a lemonade for Alistair), they’d exhausted all possible topics of work, women, and fatherhood. It was why these days, Alistair would drop Kieran off, ask Mr. Tabris how he was doing, and drive home until 6 PM, when he would drive back, pick Kieran up, ask Mr. Tabris if Kieran had been good, and drive home yet again.

It was because he didn’t want to impose on Mr. Tabris, Alistair justified.

It was because he didn’t want to rehash the same conversation topics, Alistair reasoned.

It was because he didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good work relationship, Alistair decided.

It definitely wasn’t because he’d seen Mr. Tabris at The Pearl once and wasn’t sure if Mr. Tabris had seen him, Alistair told himself.

* * *

 

Kieran had been a _handful_ in the morning before the bus came to get him. Alistair had made the unforgivable mistake of asking if Adaia was “coming over to play” after school, and apparently, “play” was _out_ and “hang” was _in_ . Kieran had sputtered in embarrassed outrage--” _No_ , dad”--and, heading out the door, had added the parting shot of, “ _Mom_ gets it.”

The fact Alistair was divorced didn’t particularly sting anymore. It had been nearly eight years, and Kieran probably couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t spend weekends at his mother’s secluded house in the country. But he was eleven now. Old enough to know that the best way to get under his father’s skin was to imply Alistair wasn’t doing a good job, and certainly old enough to know better than to try.

But Alistair wasn’t much of a disciplinarian. And Kieran also knew _that_.

Alistair’s car unlocked with a couple cheerful beeps, and he sighed, planting his forehead against the top of his minivan. He wasn’t looking forward to spending the evening with a surly Kieran, Adaia or no Adaia. Kieran hadn’t even answered the original question.

“Should’ve had a mabari instead of a kid,” Alistair mumbled against the metal of the car. “Mabaris are loyal.”

“Would’ve been hard on Morrigan, don’t you think?” an amused voice said from across his car. Alistair’s head shot up, and of course Mr. Tabris was standing there, keys in hand, the door to his sedan open. A half-smile slashed itself across his face. “I shouldn’t make the obvious ‘bitch’ joke, should I?” He was wearing shiny black shades that completely obscured his eyes. Alistair wished he had a pair of shiny black shades.

Half-smile, tailored suit, sleek sedan, shiny black shades...No wonder Kieran preferred going over to the Tabrises. Mr. Tabris looked like a “cool dad” who probably knew to ask Adaia if Kieran was “coming over to hang.”

“Probably not,” Alistair said with another sigh. “She could probably hear you from here. And then she’d swoop down upon us both in vengeance.”

Mr. Tabris swung himself into the black leather of the driver’s seat. “Swooping is bad,” he agreed. “I’m guessing Kieran’s being an annoying eleven-year-old. If you want to grab a drink later, let me know.” He started the car, and it came to life with a smooth purr.

“Yeah, I’ll...do that,” Alistair lied, but Mr. Tabris had already closed the door and was backing out of the spot with a raised hand Alistair’s way. Alistair waved back like Queen Anora, and only when Mr. Tabris’s sleek sedan was purring away from Grey Warden Secure’s massive parking lot did he get into his minivan, managing not to hit his head in the process.

* * *

 

Kieran was at Morrigan’s for the weekend.

It was a long weekend for school--some sort of national holiday Alistair had forgotten about.

Grey Warden Secure was having an office party at some high-end place downtown Alistair had claimed he couldn’t afford.

Mr. Tabris had looked disappointed from the cubicle over when Alistair had laughed his excuses.

That meant Mr. Tabris was going to it.

It was safe.

But Alistair still looked over his shoulder as he shuffled through the dingy parking lot. No sleek sedans. No shiny black shades glinting in the neon pink light. No offers of a drink later, not from Mr. Tabris and not from any of the other folks at work.

The thumping bass and raucous shouts of the audience slammed into Alistair’s chest when he closed the door behind him and nodded at the bouncer. The Pearl was busier than usual, probably due to the long weekend, and the strippers onstage or on-pole were well into their routines. He’d come later than usual, waiting for the office party to start far away in a nicer part of Denerim.

Alistair could no longer recall how he’d found The Pearl. How he’d decided to check it out. It was an uncharacteristic decision, surely. He vaguely remembered some bachelor’s party, but not whose it was. He didn’t usually drink to excess, but maybe he had at one point? It must have been something to that effect, the more he thought about it.

It was quite the night. One that he knew only through flashes of laughing and _muscles_ and spilled drinks and _soft skin_ and faceless new friends and _uncertain flutters in his stomach_ and foggy conversations--

Encouraging howls and catcalls keened through the poorly-lit space. A short and curvy woman-- _oh, she’s topless_ \--was gyrating on the lap of a round boy surrounded by “FINALLY 18” balloons. The birthday boy’s friends were throwing cash her way, oblivious to the kid’s wide-eyes and frozen hands. Alistair’s face turned red from second-hand embarrassment. He needed a drink.

The bar was farther away than he remembered, squatting low and neon near a black-velvet-curtained-off wall. Alistair blundered through the screaming men mumbling “excuse me”’s and “sorry”’s and “just getting to the bar”’s. It was loud, but for some reason, not so loud that he couldn’t hear the main door open, couldn’t hear the bouncer growl, “ID.”

Alistair peered around his shoulder, bar just within reach, and felt his heart plummet into his stomach with an icy splash when he saw who was getting carded. Mr. Tabris calmly reached into his blazer pocket for his wallet, thumbing through it before handing the bouncer his ID. Alistair, like an idiot, did not think to glance away as Mr. Tabris tugged off his shiny black shades and looked at the bouncer. And then right his way.

Alistair had never had such a frantic need for the bathroom in his life. He barged past the bar, past the black velvet curtain, and barreled into the men’s room like he was about to piss himself. He slammed a stall door closed and stared at the toilet, smiling a watery grin at him in a mocking sort of way.

Why?

_Why?_

He hadn’t planned for this. Mr. Tabris had seemed eager to go to the work party, or at least, he’d seemed disappointed that Alistair wasn’t going. Didn’t that mean he’d been planning on attending?

Why, why, why was he _here_?

Alistair gulped several deep breaths, the red mottling his cheeks fading with each inhale. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. This was something men did. It was okay that they were colleagues. Some colleagues even went to go to strip clubs together. It was also okay that their children were best friends. Their eleven-year-old children. The children whose potty-training habits they’d discussed.

And Mr. Tabris was _cool_. If Mr. Tabris deigned to grace a fine establishment such as this with his presence, then certainly Alistair was that much classier for appreciating the same sort of exotic dancing he did.

Alistair took another breath, steeled himself, and tried not to burst out of the bathroom with too much fanfare. Fortunately, the roaring audience was sufficiently distracted by the short dancer back on stage, upside down on the pole with only her legs gripping the steel from above.

Seated at the bar was Mr. Tabris, back to her, tumbler in hand. No, not Mr. Tabris. Alistair knew his name. Definitely. Something with an E.

Edward, Evan, Eldric--

“Funny seeing you here, Evaric,” Alistair chirped, sliding into the barstool that left one seat empty between them. A burly man to Alistair’s right barely gave him a look, and neither did Mr. Tabris.

Damn. Wrong name?

The crowd cheered again, and Mr. Tabris cast an uninterested glance over his shoulder. Alistair stiffened, nearly twisting his neck in a manic effort to smile at the bartender.

“Alistair?”

He couldn’t help it. He jumped, flicked nervous eyes to his left. Mr. Tabris, shiny black shade-less, had raised eyebrows and lips parted in surprise.

“Evaric,” Alistair greeted him with a definitely not-squeaky response. Mr. Tabris’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his hairline.

They stared at each other for a very long second. Mr. Tabris had very brown eyes, noticeable against how wide they were.

Mr. Tabris, of course, was the first to crack a smile, raising his glass. “They make a mean old-fashioned here, huh?”

Alistair nodded once, twice, way too many times to be normal. “I try something new every time I’m here and I’m never disappointed.”

Fuck. It was true, but did Mr. Tabris need to know he came here _often_?

“Do you,” Kieran’s best friend’s father intoned. He took a slow sip from his drink while Alistair continued babbling.

“I have kind of diverse tastes, I guess. And there’s not really a place in Denerim that offers so many kinds of things to try, at least not nearby. So I like to come here to unwind. I’m really only adventurous in this one boring place.”

Why wasn’t Mr. Tabris looking at him? What was so absorbing about that one specific ice cube floating in his old-fashioned? Alistair stared at it, too, and shut up.

“What’s your favorite...drink? Here, I mean?” Mr. Tabris finally said when Alistair was growing bored with the ice cube and contemplating waving the bartender back over.

“It’s a little weird,” Alistair hedged, but of course that only got Mr. Tabris to smile encouragingly. “It’s called a Starkhaven Poet.”

“You like Starkhaven Poets, huh? Wouldn’t’ve figured you for the type.”

“It’s whiskey,” Alistair explained, missing the way Mr. Tabris bit back another grin. “Whiskey and rose syrup. With lemon juice and cold tea on top.”

“Rose syrup?”

“Most places don’t have it. But The Pearl does. It’s surprisingly fancy.”

Mr. Tabris didn’t answer, but he did lift his fingers a couple hairbreadths above the counter. The bartender materialized like he’d been magically summoned. “A...Starkhaven Poet for my friend here,” he said, nodding at Alistair one barstool away. The bartender didn’t bat an eye, setting to work scooping ice. “You look like you could use it,” Mr. Tabris said to Alistair.

Was he sweating? When had he started sweating? Alistair thumbed the side of his nose, and yes, it came away a little damp. He tried to talk and distract Mr. Tabris from the way he was wiping the sweat off on his jeans. “Glad to have the weekend to myself after a long day,” he made up.

“Kieran with his mom?”

Alistair nodded, relieved to have a familiar topic. The music blasting through the speakers faded into something slower with a jazzy feel. “Yeah, every weekend. Adaia?”

“With Leliana, yeah.” The bartender set the Starkhaven Poet in front of him, and Alistair sipped it through the dinky little straw without remembering to thank the guy. “Adaia hasn’t been doing too great in science, and I really can’t help with that. So it’s good that she’s with her mom.”

“Leliana went to some fancy Orlesian school, right?” Alistair piped up.

“She’s Orlesian, so presumably,” Mr. Tabris laughed. “They have a more varied curriculum there. And Leliana was always bright, so…” He shrugged. “Just another way she’s better suited to helping Adaia than me.”

“Hey,” Alistair chided, but Mr. Tabris waved him off with his half-drained glass.

“I’m kidding. How’s your Poet?”

Alistair blinked and looked around the slowly-emptying dance floor. The birthday boy was staggering out the door with the large group of friends who’d dragged him.

“Your drink, Alistair.”

He flushed, but Mr. Tabris didn’t sound annoyed or even mocking. “It’s great,” Alistair said, thrusting the highball across the empty barstool. “Wanna try it?”

Mr. Tabris’s face was unreadable. It was only now that Alistair noticed his shiny black shades were still present, folded neatly in the front blazer pocket, glinting in the steadily changing strobe lights. “You’re not gonna card me, too, are you?”

Alistair chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that. They should’ve carded me, too.”

“You can grow a beard. I can’t.” Mr. Tabris took the offered glass and lifted it to his lips. He didn’t use the straw, sipping from the edge and staring at some point behind Alistair’s head.

Alistair didn’t realize he was watching Mr. Tabris drink until well past the point of not-weird. He cleared his throat when Mr. Tabris handed him back his Starkhaven Poet. He did not look when Mr. Tabris’s tongue darted out to catch a whiskey droplet on his own thumb. Instead, he sipped from his little straw and pretended that the burly man sitting to his right wasn’t calling one of the dancers over.

“It was pretty good,” Mr. Tabris granted him. “Not sure I’d call it my favorite.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“Guess I’m not one for poetry. More of an old-fashioned sort of guy. I like the classics.” Mr. Tabris drained his glass in one fluid motion and signaled to the bartender, miming a pen writing in empty air. The bartender zipped into existence once more, handing him a credit card and receipt. “Sorry to bail on you, Alistair, but I’m a strict one-drink driver. Don’t need to stick around for anything else, right?”

“Right,” Alistair agreed. “Of course. Nothing else.”

Mr. Tabris signed the receipt, and Alistair couldn’t help but notice his elaborate signature. Alistair’s was a hasty, scribbled thing he hadn’t changed since he first learned script. “Nice seeing you outside of work.”

“We’ll get Kieran and Adaia together soon,” Alistair said, but Mr. Tabris only hmmed, folded up his copy of the receipt, and was soon wading through the thinning crowd of sex-fueled people with a hand raised in farewell.

“I’m good to go, too,” Alistair said to the bartender, who was no longer there, instead chatting with a patron further down. The burly man was now being attended to by a very thin young woman with a seductive smirk frozen on her lips. Alistair edged into the seat that had stood between him and Mr. Tabris, summoned his courage, and mimed writing a pen.

The bartender faded into sight. “You’re all set.”

“Huh?” Alistair managed, already reaching into his jeans pocket for his wallet.

“You had the Starkhaven Poet, right?” Alistair nodded. “You were on Evaric’s tab.”

“Oh. Well, guess I owe him a favor,” Alistair said to thin air. The bartender had moved on. “Or a drink, at least.”

Under the gap between the floor and the black velvet curtain, purple and blue lights drew Alistair’s eye. The shadows of shoes blotted out the glow every few drumbeats.

_Don’t need to stick around for anything else, right?_

It occurred to Alistair, back in his minivan and zooming along the express lane home, that Mr. Tabris had apparently had a tab open, and yet he’d said he always stopped at one drink. But this realization was overshadowed by the distinct embarrassment of calling him “Mr. Tabris” in the privacy of Alistair’s own mind.

Evaric, Alistair reminded himself. The man’s name was Evaric.

* * *

  
  



	2. Anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How had he ever managed to look Mr. Tabris in the eye without stuttering when he was shiny black shade-free?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picked up steam again and am back on the fanfic train. Choo choo! Last chapter's in the works, too—hoping we all won't have to wait as long for these good ol' Dragon Dads.

The office offered its usual clicks and taps and beeps when the elevator spat Alistair onto his floor. He glared at its clunky shutting doors before slinging his raincoat over his shoulder and stomping as quietly he could to his cubicle.

A building full of programmers, engineers, security specialists, industrial designers, and bosses of each of those departments, and no one could make the main elevator run even a tad smoother.

Not that Alistair had filed a work request, himself. One of these days, though…

“Alistair,” a warm voice greeted him. Alistair, for his credit, did not jump back into attention, but he did startle a few dripping raindrops off his coat.

“Duncan,” Alistair smiled back. It was a lot easier to call his boss by his first name than it was to call Mr. Tabris. At the thought of his unlikely bar companion—once and once _only_ —he managed to keep his features schooled and eyes on the man. Well, the man’s beard, at least.

“We missed you at the party last week,” Duncan noted with genuine sadness, rubbing the salt-and-pepper beard on his chin.

It really was an impressive beard. Alistair would grow one himself if he could manage just a little more of a chinstrap, but he knew he’d never look complete without an earring of his own. Only Duncan could pull off a beard and an earring _and_ a careful ponytail effortlessly.

“Well, duty calls,” Alistair laughed, hoping that answered all. Maker, he couldn’t remember what his excuses had been. Better not to get tripped up in forgotten lies. “You know how it is.”

Duncan nodded somberly. “You’ve got a good work-life balance going on, Alistair,” he agreed. “A hard-working employee to us, and a fantastic father to your son.”

Alistair’s smile twitched. _Shit_. Had _that_ been his excuse? Kieran went to his mother’s every weekend. Every. Single. Weekend.

From this moment on, Alistair could never mention his son, his son’s schedule, or his own hobbies while in the office.

“Thanks, boss.”

Duncan nodded again and stepped aside with an amused gesture towards his cubicle, and it was with gratitude that Alistair sank into his spinny office chair.

He could feel curious eyes on him while he logged in, but there was only one cubicle that could see into his from across the corridor. He kept typing, hoping Mr. Tabris would go back to his own work.

Alistair pulled up the company tasklist, eyes scanning the forums and notes. An unpleasant and dangerous virus called “blight” had cropped up recently, a nasty file-sharing data-eating thing proving difficult to isolate. Grey Warden Secure wasn’t the only firm trying to slap bandaids on data protection while they tried to tackle the larger issue, but that didn’t mean “just-a-few hands on deck” at the office.

A creak.

“If you didn’t want to go to the office party last week,” Mr. Tabris said in a low voice behind him, “you probably could’ve said so, right?”

Alistair debated keeping his eyes fixed on the screen or facing his potential snitch head-on. But civility won out over pettiness (fear), and he leaned back with his own creak of the chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Ah,” he shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, “I just didn’t want to make a whole production out of it. I’ve only been at this location a year, right? Don’t want to step on any toes.”

“I’ve been here eight months,” Mr. Tabris pointed out, the ghost of a smirk on his face. At least he wasn’t wearing his shiny black shades inside. Alistair could see no malice in his big eyes. “I don’t think I’ve done any toe-stepping yet.”

“I’m like an ogre in a dance class,” Alistair said, latching onto the handy excuse. “I’m aware that I could step on people’s toes very easily, but I still want to do a good job dancing.”

Mr. Tabris said nothing, coolly observing him over his mug of steaming coffee. Alistair eyed it jealously.

When another few seconds had gone by, and Mr. Tabris still seemed to be expecting him to explain, Alistair tried again. “Dancing is pretty hard work, too. Lot of things to avoid. Lot of cubicles to dance in. But an ogre has to try, right? Just gotta do the best it can with office dancing.”

Nothing except for a quiet slurp from the coffee mug.

Jokes, Alistair! Make a joke out of it! “Just so you know,” he quipped, jerking his chin in the general direction of Duncan’s office, “if the boss-man asks an ogre to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, it’s drawing the line. Office politics or no.”

“I’d like to see that,” Mr. Tabris snorted, and Alistair breathed out. Then, he leaned over his mug a little, squinting at Alistair in a calculating way that made him wish the guy _was_ wearing his shiny black shades. “You talk a lot when you’re embarrassed, huh.”

“That’s me,” Alistair chirped, hoping his face wasn’t as red with shame as it felt. He creaked his chair intentionally, hoping Mr. Tabris’d get the hint and leave him to work and also die in peace.

It worked. Mr. Tabris lifted his mug like a conceding toast and started heading back to his own cubicle. Alistair relaxed and turned his attention towards version control comments. He was mid-mouse-scroll when Mr. Tabris passed him and said, “The Pearl’s a pretty good place to practice dancing, anyway. Good call.”

Maybe this blight would manifest itself physically and data-eat Alistair’s existence.

* * *

 

“Where’s Adaia?” Alistair asked when Kieran slid the minivan door shut behind him without her. “I thought she was coming home with you.”

Kieran shrugged. “I dunno.”

Alistair wasn’t fooled for an instant. The morose look pulling his son’s features down would be visible from space, his rearview mirror notwithstanding. He left the car in park, unbuckled his seatbelt, and squished himself through the front seats to join his son in the back.

“Hey,” he said softly, stretching his arm out over the back of the seat. Kieran needed no further invitation to push his face into Alistair’s shoulder, but he still didn’t explain. Alistair peered through the window behind Kieran where other children were running from the elementary school into buses and cars. He thought he saw a flash of auburn hair, but then again, a lot of kids had auburn hair. It didn’t _have_ to be Adaia.

It didn’t have to be until he saw the auburn-headed figure duck into a sleek sedan, which drove away.

“Did you have a fight?” His son stilled against his shoulder. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Alistair nodded, giving Kieran a chance to scrub his face and buckle back in. He clambered back into the driver’s seat and backed out of the spot. The elementary school’s street was out of sight when Kieran mumbled, “I kinda do wanna talk about it, actually. If that’s okay.”

“It’s always okay, Kieran.” Alistair risked a glance in the mirror, but Kieran was playing with the buttons on his backpack.

“I told Adaia we could study together and all for the social studies test, because there were a lot of battles to remember. We had to know their names and locations and stuff.”

Alistair knew better than to quiz him on which battles for which war. Now did not seem like a good time, and it wasn’t like Alistair knew more Thedosian history than a children’s school curriculum.

“We were gonna hang out the other night, on our day off, and study at the Tabrises. But I forgot, because I slept late, and I forgot to tell you, so you didn’t remind me.” Kieran’s tone was on the edge of accusation.

“Did Adaia tell Mr. Tabris?” Maker’s balls. Alistair didn’t mean to shift the blame to the other father. He cringed, but Kieran was mollified and didn’t notice.

“I dunno. Maybe? I dunno. She didn’t get mad until social studies period right before the test, and then I remembered and felt really bad.”

Alistair turned into their development, slowing his speed so he could properly watch for children and pedestrians and mabari. “You and Adaia are super close. Thick as thieves,” Alistair reminded him. “Why don’t you call her tonight? ‘I’m sorry, Adaia. I’ll make it up to you, Adaia.’” Kieran was silent as they pulled into their driveway, sparing not a single laugh for Alistair’s falsetto.

“Can you call?” Kieran suddenly piped up in the living room.

“Huh?”

“What if she sees that it’s me calling and then doesn’t want to pick up?” Kieran wrung his hands, folding them over each other again and again. It was a habit Alistair was all-too familiar with. His own hands had suffered much in that fashion.

He blinked. “Well, then I guess she doesn’t pick up.”

“But you can call Mr. Tabris, right?” Kieran didn’t seem to notice how ramrod-straight his father’s spine had become. “You can ask him if she wants to talk to me, and then I can call her. Or I won’t. It depends.”

“Buh,” Alistair replied with eloquence. Kieran waited, accustomed to his dad’s frequent bouts of babbling. “I mean, I don’t see why not, right?” It wasn’t like he could tell his own child _no, I embarrass myself enough_ in front of _Mr. Tabris, so I certainly don’t need to_ over the phone _as well._ “Yeah, I have Mr. Tabris’s number. What’s the worst that could happen?” He laughed, a little too hard, at the possibility of everything happening in the worst way.

“Thanks, dad,” Kieran said. He plopped down on the couch and waited for Alistair to join him. The cell phone was, for some inexplicable reason, stuck very far down in his pocket. He fished it out with much dawdling and sat next to Kieran.

The screen was rather dark and shiny.

_Shiny black_ —“Dad,” Kieran reminded him with no small amount of impatience, and Alistair tapped Mr. Tabris’s contact info and hit MOBILE. He put the phone to his ear and waited. Hopefully Mr. Tabris was one of those fellows who only had three rings before voicemail. He seemed the type.

“Hey, Alistair.”

“Evaric!” Alistair boomed into the phone, a charming smile no one but Kieran could see twitching on his face. “We were just talking about you. Me and Kieran, I mean.”

“Oh?” He heard a shuffle and a slight screech of metal on metal. “Makes sense I came into mind, since you called.”

“Ask him about Adaia,” Kieran mouthed. Alistair rolled his eyes and nodded at him.

“Yeah, exactly, right. Well, Evaric,” Alistair said, “I heard Kieran and Adaia had a...well, some sort of dispute.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard that.” A sizzle and a faint “ _shit_.”

“You okay over there?” Alistair frowned while Kieran bounced on the couch impatiently.

“Yep. Just the pottage. A little too hot for my old oven mitts.”

_The what?_

“Well, anyway,” he continued, “Kieran was hoping he could call Adaia and _apologize_ ,” he stressed the word for Kieran’s benefit, “but he wanted me to run it by you first so Adaia didn’t, I don’t know, set his hair on fire over the phone.”

“Sounds like her. Let me check. Hey, Adaia,” Mr. Tabris called, not really moving the phone from his mouth. Alistair pulled his own phone away from his ear a little. “Is it cool if Kieran calls you?”

Some sort of high-pitched calling back, words muffled, answered him.

“She says it’s okay.”

“She says it’s okay,” Alistair repeated to Kieran, whose eyes widened in relief.

“Really? She says it’s okay?”

“Really?” Alistair confirmed with Mr. Tabris.

“Yep.”

Kieran dashed off with no further prompting into his room. Alistair exhaled a long, blustery sigh.

“Kids, right?” he said cheerfully. “Well, Evaric, it’s been—”

“Any exciting plans this weekend?”

Alistair’s phone felt rather glued to his ear. Probably stuck with sudden sweat alone. “Uh. Well, Kieran’s going to Morrigan’s.”

“ _Comme d’habitude_.” Why couldn’t Alistair have had an Orlesian ex-wife to learn cool Orlesian phrases from? “Are you going to celebrate your weekly chill-out by making some more dancing excuses?”

“ _Comme d’habitude_ ,” Alistair rolled the fancy words over his tongue thoughtfully, hoping it meant something relevant.

He could practically see the grin cut into Evaric’s mouth as he replied, “Then I guess I’ll see ya there.”

And with that, Evaric’s voice and pottage vanished. The phone released its suction-cup hold on Alistair’s ear.

“Hey, dad?” Kieran’s voice called from his room. “Can Adaia come over tomorrow?”

“Yeah, of course,” Alistair said without thinking about anything at all and definitely not the slow smile he could still hear in Evaric’s voice.

Orlais had betrayed the innocent Fereldan people yet again.

* * *

 

For all of Alistair’s best efforts, he couldn’t seem to avoid Mr. Tabris, nor talking with Mr. Tabris the rest of the week, which made sense considering the man had to drop off and pick up Adaia, and also the fact that he worked in the cubicle across from him. How had this office layout never seemed so noticeable to him before? How had he ever managed to look Mr. Tabris in the eye without stuttering when he was shiny black shade-free?

Long gone were the water cooler talk days. Long gone were the lemonade and apple juice days. It was hard to go back to juvenile imbibing when two men had tasted each other’s alcoholic drinks while observing the same naked bodies together.

Well, not each _other_ ’s naked bodies. Other naked bodies. Together.

On that note, Alistair caught himself one morning at the office gym, Mr. Tabris was pretty ripped.

Mr. Tabris drew his eye under the blaring overheard TV separating his treadmill from Alistair’s elliptical, but at least it was barely half a second before they both returned to watching TV.

It was just a fun fact, a bit of competitive comparison between the two, Alistair knew. He flattered himself in thinking he was pretty buff himself, at least buff enough to flex a little in the mirror after a shower. Mr. Tabris was leaner than he was, so Alistair could probably win in a test-your-strength competition if not a lightweight wrestling match against the guy.

Well, _anyway_. Wrestling aside, it made it both a little easier and a little more difficult when, after Morrigan picked their son up after school that weekend, Alistair went to The Pearl against his better judgment. Naked ladies and half-naked gym rats forged a bond between coworkers, right? Like icebreakers, if the ice was floating in a tumbler full of whiskey.

Waiting for the bouncer to ID him like he was nineteen, Alistair recalled he’d never seen another coworker in this fine establishment. They probably went to the more-expensive Blooming Rose, he reminded himself.

Mr. Tabris hadn’t shown up yet—if he was coming at all, Alistair firmly reminded himself—so Alistair took a seat at the bar in his usual barstool.

Maker. How embarrassing that he had a usual barstool.

But no, there should be nothing embarrassing about this. The only thing _embarrassing_ , he thought, flagging down the bartender, was that he’d made eye contact with Mr. Tabris those weeks ago way across the room.

“How’s it going?” Mr. Tabris asked like he’d always been here, sliding into the chair next to him and nodding at the bartender waiting to hear Alistair’s order.

“Oh, you know,” Alistair replied. “A Vesper, please,” he told the bartender next, who drifted out of sight while Mr. Tabris got settled. Mr. Tabris furrowed his brows.

“You sure, Alistair? They make them strong here.”

Alistair beamed, trying to ooze confidence instead of _oops I didn’t know_. “It shouldn’t be a problem if I stay here longer, right?”

Mr. Tabris blinked. Alistair didn’t realize a blink could last so long. Maybe it was because his eyelashes were so long that it took a while for them to brush over his skin—

He was smiling now, glinting in the dark club. Seemed like Alistair’s fake confidence had been convincing. “No problem at all. In fact, it would be a pleasure.”

Alistair forced himself to stare over Mr. Tabris’s shoulder at the closest lap dance to give him an excuse for his shifting legs and sweaty neck.

How did someone manage to pronounce the word _pleasure_ like that? More Orlesian influence, he’d wager. Masters of seduction and all.

“He seems to be having a…he seems _pleased_ , at least,” Alistair said, pointing over at the lap dance recipient. Mr. Tabris twisted around to have a look.

“Hmm.” He didn’t sound particularly impressed. In all honesty, Alistair wasn’t, either. Not for lack of the stripper’s trying, or her skillset. The man _did_ look happy, the stripper a little less so but putting on a good show in more than one way, but…Her breasts were larger than to Alistair’s taste. “To each his own.”

“Bouncing breasts have a time and a place,” Alistair opined. Mr. Tabris turned back to him with an arched eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.

Andraste’s knickers hadn’t flamed as much as Alistair’s face was right now. He was starting to get the feeling, deep in his gut, maybe a little lower, that Mr. Tabris wasn’t just cool. He was rather the opposite—

“And what’s the appropriate time? Or place, I suppose is more interesting,” Mr. Tabris encouraged. Alistair was saved from responding by the bartender’s appearance.

“Vesper. Good luck.” He tucked a paper coaster under the glass and started to phase out of existence as his habit, but one look at Mr. Tabris’s empty place made Alistair suffer a bout of temporary insanity.

“I’ll order something for my friend,” he announced, jabbing a finger at Mr. Tabris, whose eyebrows shot up even further, mouth even dropping a little.

“Alistair, you really don’t owe—“

Alistair, feeling emboldened by Mr. Tabris’s surprise and his own confident streak, waved him off. “No, no, no. I won’t hear it, la la la!” The bartender’s eyes wandered over to the other patrons filling the seats. “Here, you liked the rose syrup last time, right?”

Mr. Tabris relaxed, hands raised in supplication. “Sort of, yeah. Your weapon of choice, then.”

“Starkhaven Poet for him,” Alistair informed the bartender.

“I thought you liked it…stronger,” the bartender mused, comment directed at Mr. Tabris. Alistair, suddenly nervous, turned towards his companion to ask his actual opinion, but it was a shock to see the usually composed Mr. Tabris flushing, pink crawling up his neck to make his cheeks glow. He couldn’t hide his wide eyes behind shiny black shades this time.

“I don’t, uh, it’s always, um, good to try—“ he stammered.

But Alistair, while clueless about the situation, was nothing if not a Fereldan and a gentleman, able to recognize the signs of an uncertain trainer about to get jumped by an untrained mabari. “The mighty powers of floral arrangements are not to be underestimated!” he loudly admonished the bartender, who actually jumped a bit. “The Starkhaven Poet will overpower this man with his rosy scent!” He slapped down maybe too many sovereigns than even a generous tip could explain, but once a gentleman…

The bartender, recovering from his momentary lapse of stony composure, shrugged and said nothing. But he did disappear back to the end of the bar with the syrups and bitters. A victory, at least.

Alistair swiveled in his seat to laugh with Mr. Tabris, but the man had turned away oh-so-slightly, throat bobbing as he swallowed. Before Alistair could begin to feel ignored, he glanced a little farther up and realized Mr. Tabris’s ears were still red. For no reason, Alistair’s own face decided to forgo its usual blushing in favor of the same nervous swallowing. A bubble of silence descended upon them, isolating them in the roar and thump and whoops of the strip joint.

Alistair wasn’t sure who spoke first.

“Mr. Tabris—“

“Mr. Theirin—“

Horrified, embarrassed stare met horrified, embarrass stare.

“Oh, Andraste’s tits. Evaric, I can’t—“

“Alistair, it’s just because—“

Sheepish, relieved smile met sheepish, relieved smile.

“It’s just around my son—“

“My daughter, she calls—“

They both wheezed into laughter, slamming their fists onto the counter and gripping their knees, tension dissipating with each chortle.

“Maker’s fucking balls,” Evaric finally managed. “It was gonna happen eventually, wasn’t it?”

“I swear, it’s been creeping up on me for ages,” Alistair admitted. “I’m always trying not to say your name _just in case_ I sound like Kieran.”

“Seriously?” Evaric choked out. Both of their giggles were subsiding, at least. “That’s why I say your name so often. Like tying a string around my finger to call you the right name.”

The bartender faded into existence, sliding the highball glass over to Evaric, who grabbed it with enthusiasm. Alistair took a much-needed sip of his Vesper, Evaric sending a few bubbles of unrepressed laughter into his whiskey.

* * *

 

Conversation got a lot easier after that, helped by the final, long-awaited breach of formality as well as the smooth drinks. Around them, men and a few women cheered and screamed to the rhythm of stiletto heels clacking on platforms and poles. The music was unrelenting, the bartender invisible, the room pleasantly shiny around the edges.

“Well, now, Evaric: have _you_ ever licked a lamppost in winter?”

Alistair’s jokes had never been funnier to anyone in known memory. Evaric threw back his head and laughed, clearly never having heard such wit. Once recovered, he pushed aside his empty glass and propped his head up on his hand to look at Alistair with calculating, narrowed eyes.

“Hm,” Evaric said, softly enough that Alistair had to lean close to hear lest the words get caught in the noise of the club. “I can think of far better things to lick.”

Alistair’s blood had never been faster to flood his face in known memory.

He jerked back like he’d been burned, the Vesper’s influence making him slip off the stool. Evaric caught his shoulder before any real damage could be done, and while even his movements were slow and clunky, it at least helped Alistair regain his balance. A little.

“Too much?” Evaric asked, predatory look wiped clean from his face and replaced entirely with concern and—was that guilt? Alistair waved his hands, trying to dismiss the worries with nonchalance, but ending up doing a little cheer gesture instead.

“No, ha, no, not at all! Nothing wrong, nothing is—too much. Maybe too much to drink!” Although the concerned face and steadying hand remained, the way Evaric bit his lower lip, the weight of his hand on Alistair’s shoulder did nothing to reboot his system. He kept laughing, the alcohol helping the sound stay loud and strong. “I’m just, uh, going to stand. Over there. Until the blushing stops.”

Evaric followed Alistair’s randomly pointing finger, aimed at the black curtain off to the side of the bar. He cleared his throat like an odd-sounding cough and took his hand off Alistair’s shoulder. “Alistair,” he said carefully, slurring his words only a little bit. “I really have no objection with that side of the room, but…I don’t think you—“

Too late, Alistair decided. He was too close to Evaric already, too disappointed by the loss of the reassuring hand, too hot and tight and uncomfortable to do anything other than stand and walk. He took purposeful stumbling steps towards the curtained-off area where fewer people were mingling. There was a string, some sort of cord, attached to the heavy fabric, and Alistair yanked it, hoping it would yield access, which it did.

Something that sort of sounded like Evaric saying his name called behind him, but slightly fresher air came from beyond, and Alistair ducked behind the curtain and prepared to breathe easy.

He did not.

“Alistair.” Evaric’s hand latched onto his forearm, but Alistair didn’t twitch. “I don’t know if this is—“

Music, pretty much the same as the other side. No bar, but more seats, half of which were filled. Same size stage, a couple fewer poles. The main difference was the men. The men taking off their clothes onstage.

A group of women gathered close to one part of the stage, giggling to each other and whistling at the stripper above them. Off to the side, a different group of both chubby and scrawny burly bearded guys howled approval at a blond man with a ponytail onstage, trying to slip sovereigns into his thong while he danced and teased. The dancer caught Alistair staring, glanced over to Evaric next to him, and gave them a long, slow wink before stretching backwards on the pole, supported just by his thighs and the weight of the sovereigns.

Alistair stepped a little more into the space, eyes goggling every which way. He cleared his throat, then again, then again, unknowingly dragging Evaric along.

“Uh,” he finally managed, blinking fast in the direction of a different stripper with a lot of tattoos. The onlookers crowed and screamed just like anyone else in the club. Alistair barely felt his rear hit the seat.

Evaric, unsuccessful in his attempts to say anything Alistair could actually listen to, plopped down next to him. He let go of Alistair again, the loss of contact shifting Alistair’s attention to his Evaric-less forearm. At the sight, he looked up to meet the other man’s eyes, sobriety kicking in just long enough to form a stuttered apology, but then Evaric’s tongue darted out to run over his bottom lip as they both prepared to speak, and sobriety said its merry farewells.

“Well,” Evaric remarked, and Alistair’s eyes shot away from the man’s mouth, “let’s see if we can get your blushing to stop over here, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comme d'habitude: French for "as usual"


End file.
